


After Deception

by Caidyn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, The Great Game AU, Unmarried Greg, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caidyn/pseuds/Caidyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, the person Sherlock had least expected being Moriarty had been one of the only people he had trusted. An aftermath of the deception with Greg trying to help him feel normal again the night of it happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Deception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theivoryfool](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=theivoryfool).



> A lovely request for dark!John, hurt!Sherlock, a comforting!smart!Lestrade by [theivoryfool](http://theivoryfool.tumblr.com/) that I was happy to fulfill. I also added in another, surprise, request that I saw she had just for the hell of it. I'd also like to thank [avidauthor](http://avidauthor.tumblr.com/) for helping by betaing this!

How could he have flubbed up that? John _wasn’t_ Moriarty, and yet he was. Sherlock was alone in a police waiting room, having given his statement about what had happened at the swimming pool. It all had happened so fast. From Baker Street, he’d gone to the arranged meeting place to find no one there, not even someone told to pick up the flash drive for Moriarty. The person who had stepped out from the shadows was John, looking rather gratified with himself.

“What a turn up,” he had stated, walking forward with his arms behind his back, his left hand grasping his right wrist with a triumphant smile cruelly twisting his lips up. “Didn’t even expect his dear Watson to be the ingenious culprit of these crimes. I never thought you would be this trusting if I say so myself.”

“John,” he susurrated, raising his gun to point a bit further up than the tile.

“And he _still_ believes I’m who I say I am! How better to see how someone works than working with them? You are smart, but you’re a bit stupid in trusting like this,” the sentence was said softly, as if it was a scandalous suggestion. “I hate saying that I’m disappointed with your reputation, Sherlock.”

They — meaning John/Moriarty — had talked more and the whole plan had unfolded in front of his eyes. John Watson, a doctor that had been completely made up, had been introduced to Sherlock by Mike Stamford, someone who also had been in on this plan. Sherlock was meant to believe that he helped heal John by bringing him along on cases that involved the action that a war had,and Sherlock had fallen into the trap.

Greg had been right. Sherlock had been lucky to escape the pool with the snipers pointed at him, but he had to go to the first place he had thought to go for safety in case John — Moriarty, it was going to take ages to actually get that down, that the person he had counted as one of his most trusted friends had been everything but that — decided to kill the only person that would have known the real identity of John Watson.

What put him in awe was that Greg had figured it out. On one of the first days, after the case with the cab driver who had talked to people who then killed themselves, he had gone to Greg’s for the evening, as he typically did, to have a glass of wine and sit on a couch together, simply talking and holding each other like an old married couple. The man had said that he had a gut feeling about John, that something was _wrong_ with him. He had known exactly where to go without having a single clue where Sherlock had disappeared off to and it felt like he had planned it somehow, no matter how preposterous it was to think of. And, Sherlock being Sherlock, had called the man an idiot and questioned exactly how that would work since he had been with John the whole evening up until the cab had gotten him.

They had dropped the conversation after that.  
And now, it turned out the one man he should have trusted the opinion of was right.

There was a knock on the door before it opened, the flash of grey hair standing in the doorway with a worried look on his face. “Are you all right, Sunshine?” After a pause he added, “Don’t answer that—a stupid question that was pointless to ask, as you would say.” He closed the door behind him and went to sit on the metal table in front of Sherlock, looking at him in that same motherly way. A mother hen, Sherlock had called him. Just like he had called John. “You’re coming home with me tonight since they’re looking through the flat for anything. Didn’t think you’d like seeing them go through your experiments.” That last statement was said hoping to revive the memory of Sherlock shouting at Lestrade the same night of him talking about John’s suspicious nature.

It did no such thing.

The DI sighed and got up from the table with his hand outstretched to Sherlock. “Come on, I’ll get you back to the flat. You don’t have to talk at all.” Sherlock lamely took the hand that pulled him from the chair and immediately put an arm around his shoulder in a way most would see as friendly but Sherlock knew as perturbed and loving. A mother hen.

Lestrade led him to the street that was busy with cars that honked their horns and made Sherlock shrink back, along with the lights that flashed in his eyes. He was in shock. Even he could pick the symptoms out while he was in the middle of it. Greg’s hand went up and down his back as he hailed a cab for them to take back to his tiny flat that was close to the Yard so he could get there quickly if he needed it. He ushered Sherlock in, who immediately leaned against the cushion that turned into an anchor for him to hold on to while the DI temporarily wasn’t there anymore.

His body leaned against Lestrade’s. The arm came back around his shaking frame. “I’ll get you some water when we get to my flat, maybe even warm bath so you can relax some. And you don’t have to talk about it. I won’t make you.”

Uncommunicative, Sherlock remained. The whole cab was quiet since it seemed the driver had turned off the music for them — rap with a very loud bass that had made his already raw nerves feel even more frayed. No one bothered to fill the tense peace.

The ride ended soon, a few blocks later, and Greg gently helped him out without a word. Once in the flat — a bit messy since it seemed the man had been busy with the cases thrown at them by Moriarty over the past days — Sherlock was set in the living room on the couch. From the other room he heard the bath starting up, the water splashing against the sides of the tub. He nervously twisted his fingers in an action he had thought he had long abandoned. It hadn’t showed up since he had quit cocaine the last time. A terrible withdraw, but Greg had stayed by him, keeping him calm and entertained with cold cases to solve and as much Chinese takeout as he wanted while his appetite came back.

“Bath’s ready,” Greg murmured quietly from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame before going to Sherlock to help him up. “I promise this will help you, Sunshine. If it doesn’t, you can hit me for it. I promise that one to.” He winked, a grin spreading across his face to show off the perfectly straight and white teeth that Sherlock would make fun of on any other night. The door to the bathroom was closed and he stared at the room that was dimly lit by candles and the bath full of lavender bubbles, both acting to create a relaxing atmosphere.

“Clever, detective inspector,” he muttered to himself as he changed out of clothes he wanted to throw away to forget this night, this terrible night. Sherlock sunk down into the bath once he finished, his chin resting against the wall of bubbles floating around him, his eyes closed, knees bending. The water rippled around him.

He was alone in there for a good ten minutes before Greg knocked on the door before opening it. “I thought wine might be better than water tonight.” A small glass was held out to Sherlock. The water sloshed again when he took it. From the smell alone he could tell it was his favorite red wine, an Italian Barolo.

Sherlock sipped on it with a deep sigh following it. His head leaned back to rest against the lip of the tub while he was staring at the ceiling that had a few stains on it, probably from other tenants. They were all water stains from the room above them. They were yellowed with age, meaning, he would guess, it had been five years or more since the latest one. The older it was, the closer to a shade of brown it got.

“You were right,” he finally said after half his glass was gone. He understood Greg was still there; the breathing never had stopped since he had focused in on it for comfort. “I don’t see how you saw it and I didn’t. You’re not as smart as me.”

The DI chuckled and murmured, “I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not, but thank you, Sunshine.” He paused, then moved from the toilet that he had sat on to sit next to Sherlock on the ground so he could get a good look at him. “You just weren’t looking. That happens to all of us sometimes. Remember when you told me that Anderson and Donovan were having an affair, but I didn’t believe you until I saw the proof myself? It’s like that.”

“Except I didn’t walk in on sex like you did,” Sherlock muttered, grey eyes still boring into the plaster.

“Okay, I admit that was a bad example to give you, but you have to get the meaning behind it.” Gently, he reached his hand into the water to take Sherlock’s limp hand, a finger running over the wrinkled skin in a way meant to be soothing. “Sometimes you have to see something to believe it,” he breathed. “And this was the case for you. I’m just glad that you’re okay.” Greg leaned up to press a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, a spot that they had both agreed a place he didn’t have to inquire about before kissing.

A tick of silence went by for Sherlock before the hand pulled out of his and took the wine glass from his other one. “Close your eyes.” For once Sherlock did so without arguing or deciding to be stubborn by refusing until he knew what was going on exactly. He was too tired to do that. He could hear Greg picking something up and then opening it. Then he felt something cool in his hair before a rush of lukewarm water went over his scalp. “I remember doing this for you when you were detoxing last time because you were too agitated to do it yourself. Always calmed you down.”

It hadn’t been Greg calming him with a loving action, though. Sherlock always relaxed when someone touching him in a soothing way, from stroking his back to scratching his scalp. He breathed out heavily as more water was scooped up to wash the suds from his hair. When Greg got a towel to wipe his face dry, that was when he finally lost it.

A small sob crossed his lips, his face scrunching up as he tried to keep it inside. John, Moriarty, had gotten in and compromised him. His emotions had been played with. This was worse than any other rude word that had been said in his direction. Tears slid down his cheeks. He childishly tried to wipe them away before Greg brushed the hand away and pulled him close with soothing words murmured in his ear. “Let it out, Sunshine,” he whispered, “It feels better once you just get it out of you. Otherwise it will settle inside of you and hurt for a very long time. Come on. It’s all right. No one has to know about this.”

That prompted Sherlock’s tears to fall faster and his body move to press into the side of the tub. Greg’s hand cupped the back of his head to hug his face to his shoulder. The shirt Greg wore soon became wet with tears and the bathwater turned bitterly cold, but the dam had broken. Sherlock didn’t stop until he was all cried out and hiccupping quietly.

“Feel better?” Greg allowed him to pull away and used his thumb to wipe away the tears before they dried there. He took it a step further by standing up to get out a washcloth, wetting it with cold water from the sink and gently washing it all. “There. You get out now. Towels on the sink and I got you some of my clothes to wear. I’ll order some Chinese for us — I’ll get your usual vegetarian lo mein — and get another glass of wine for the both of us.” Another tender and lingering kiss to his temple before he was left to his own devices in the tub.

It took a few moments for him to empty the tub and get out, but when he did, he methodically dried himself off before pulling on the boxers he had come in. On the sink counter laid folded up clothes: a pair of sweats that would end up hanging off him — Greg was a bit wider than he was in the hips — and end up a bit above his ankles, and a shirt that was a deep green that reminded him of the woods around the summer home the Holmes family owned in the countryside, a peaceful and restoring place.

He walked to the living room, finding Greg there on the couch. On the coffee table in front of it were their wine glasses. “Food’s on the way. Should be about ten minutes since you took so long getting out.” He moved over on the couch to make room for Sherlock, a kind gesture but one that was ignored since Sherlock just curled up against Greg. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone now.

“That shirt looks good on you, Sunshine. You might have to keep it because I don’t think I can do it justice anymore.”

“No, it’s one of my favorite shirts on you. I’m not keeping it. Besides, it fits you better than it fits me,” Sherlock muttered, resting his head against the side of Greg’s chest as the arm came around his shoulders.

“That’s the point; I like it on you. Kind of cute seeing you in clothes that hang off your body since you always wear things that are tight,” he teased with a gentle nudge to the body beside him. “You’re keeping that shirt, so don’t bother arguing because this is one argument that I’ll win no matter what.”

Ignoring that comment, Sherlock asked, “Why did Moriarty do that? That’s something that John never would do, no matter how much had him under his control.”

“John Watson never was real, Sherlock. Moriarty created and masqueraded himself as the man,” Greg sighed. “It was all a ruse to get you involved and attached so this would hurt more when he unveiled his identity.”

“But what if he was made to do it?” Sherlock looked up at Greg, his eyes suddenly sharp and his body was jerking away from the DI. “You never know. He could have been captured and… and forced to! That is a possibility that is entirely probable for the situation that Moriarty seems to enjoy creating.”

“John Watson’s not real. Neither is Harriet Watson, John’s sister. I looked for her when I started suspecting that John wasn’t who he said he was. No information on her, but a bit on John. Just little things that would make it easy for someone to believe he was a real person, a foil to the misanthrope Moriarty really is. But nothing else. John Watson was created for you and you alone. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I really am sorry.”

Right away, Sherlock reacted violently, shoving the man away angrily and stewing in his anger. “What did I ever do to Moriarty?” he asked. “I did my job, one that I happen to enjoy.” And he had gotten this. It hadn’t ruined his job for him, only proved that caring was a dangerous disadvantage, something that Mycroft had told him from day one. He felt a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it through the fabric.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I really wanted you to have John. He didn’t bore you — which was a plus since most people do from time to time, me included — and he was nice. I wanted you to have him there when I can’t be, what with my job.” Greg really did sound regretful with that. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek to tilt the consulting detective’s face in his direction. “Sometimes things don’t make sense even when you try to make them. This is one of those times.”

Sherlock leaned in and pressed his forehead to Greg’s with a soft sigh. “I don’t like that.”

“It’s life, Sunshine. Things don’t have to be liked to happen. But, try to cheer up. We know what he looked like and who we’re looking for. London might be big, but I doubt he can hide away for long without getting noticed by someone who’s looking for him. We’ll catch him, Sherlock.” Greg’s dark eyes were focused on him, made bright with the concern shining in them. Sherlock couldn’t help but connect them to the trees in the summer home; the bark had been so dark and rough, but life ran through it brightly behind the rough exterior.

Sherlock pressed a light kiss to Greg’s lips before pulling back so he could rest lightly against the man’s side once again. “When’s the food getting here? I’m famished.”

Greg chuckled and tightened the arm around his waist to bring him close. “It’ll get here when it does. Don’t complain and drink your wine,” he murmured in that perfect way, the beam showing in his voice. Sherlock’s head tilted back so he could look at him upside down to see those teeth all over again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A bit of a turn up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/992214) by [lookupkate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate)




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